He struck a match, and the flame lit the ruin in his dark, fevered eyes. “You can’t,” he said, “have anything cleaner than love. You can’t. This love, anyway. Clean ... clean as the Virgin Mary. And then ... you’re dogged by dirt. You think fine things, fine sacrifices ... and you’re dirty as all Sodom and Gomorrah. All this nastiness round a thing, all this messing about....”
It was as the letter burnt in his hand and fluttered, just like a hurt crow, to the floor, while he watched it with intent seriousness, that I heard a step by the door in the other room. To see Conrad Masters alone, I hurried towards it. There he was, tired, worried-looking, his sharp features sticking like a great bird’s out of that rough brown coat.
“Bad,” he muttered. “Can’t do more. She’s conscious, too. And doesn’t give a damn. Not a damn. I told her you were here, and she said ‘Nice’ to that, but didn’t seem to think you were worth living for. Need a miracle now.... ‘Nice!’”
“But, good God,” I said, “we’ve got a miracle here! He’s a bit mad, but miracle is his second name....”
“And what’s his first?” Masters snapped.
“Harpenden....”
“First name, Christian name,” said Masters wearily. “Napier, by any chance?”
“You’re right,” said Masters. A decidedly undecided man? Why, he radiated resolution: and a lean sort of mirth. “Never know your luck,” he said. “Not in this world....” I just managed to catch him by the coat as he plunged towards the other room, in which one could make out the tail of Napier’s coat. “Masters,” I whispered, “I went and told him it was ptomaine poisoning....”
“Good,” said Masters. Those gentle worried eyes with the faintly amused look. “That’s all right,” he smiled. “Young ass.”
There sat Napier, a lost man....